The Book of Scottish Song/The Banks of Aith
The Banks of Aith.
[Burns.—Tune, "Robie donna Gorack." Mr. Riddell of Glenriddel also composed an air to this song. "The poet," says Allan Cunningham, "imagined himself in a distant land; and recalling the romantic hills and lovely valleys of Nithsdale, as he mused, composed this sweet song. The Comyns 'once had high command' in the district: one of their strong places was at Castledykes, immediately below Dumfries: another was at Dalswinton, a spot of great beauty, now the residence of one more than worthy of being its proprietor—James Macalpine Leny, Esq. Part of Comyn's Castle was standing as late as the year 1794. The walls were twelve feet thick, composed of hewn free-stone, and cemented with mortar of such strength that the stones separated any where save at the joints. The castle had evidently been consumed by fire. Opposite Dalswinton stands The Isle, an old tower surrounded by gardens and orchards. Ellisland is farther up the Nith; with Friars-Carse, and Blackwood, the property of William Copland, descended from John Copland who took David Bruce prisoner in the battle of Durham. The house of Blackwood stands on a bend of the stream; behind is a lofty hill studded with fine clumps of natural wood, the relics of the old Caledonian forest; before it the Nith winds along a rich extent of holmland; while towards the north, in the middle of the high road from Glasgow, grows that magnificent oak called the 'Three Brethren.' Three straight, tall shafts spring up at an equal distance from each other, and it is believed that they unite in the ground below: they are of similar girth: the branches of each are perfectly alike; and the peasantry say there is not a bough nor a leaf on one but the same will be found on the other. The three, at a distance, seem one vast tree, of a conical shape."]
The Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,
Where Cummins ance had high command:
When shall I see that honour'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear!
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here?
How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom!
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton through the broom!
Though wandering, now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonnie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days!
S